Category Archives: Columns

Column: Cosby to ‘Mork’

by Woody

Cosby, Carlin, ‘Crazy Guy’ and Mork

Bill Cosby was the first comedian I fell on the floor for. In fact, the first LP – that’s what we called long play albums back in the ’60s when I started out as a child – I owned was not by the Beatles or The Beach Boys, but rather Cosby’s “I Started Out as a Child.”1-coz

I remember in third grade our assignment was to recite a poem or short story from memory: I performed “The Water Bottle” off that album to great laughs.

In turn I listened endlessly to Cosby’s ensuing LPs “Why Is There Air”, “Wonderfulness”, “Revenge” and “To Russell, My Brother, Whom I Slept With” which hit home because I had two brothers.

The next stand-up comedians who could make Nestles Quick shoot out my nose were George Carlin and Steve Martin. I’m not sure if my older brothers ever actually listened to Martin’s “Let’s Get Small”, “A Wild And Crazy Guy” and “Comedy Is Not Pretty!” albums, but they heard me mimic the routines.

I even went to a Carlin performance at UC Santa Barbara in the late 1970s wearing an arrow fashioned as though it had been shot through my head – one of Martin’s trademark props.

Sitting a few rows from the stage with my similarly arrow-headed friend Brian Whalen, Carlin spotted us, stopped in mid-joke, and adlibbed, “You guys are at the wrong concert.”

And then along came Robin Williams. He was so hilarious that a number of freshmen in my dorm, myself included, sometimes wore rainbow suspenders like his alien character in “Mork & Mindy.”1-mork

Williams just got funnier and funnier. And while he never replaced my first comedy crush, Cosby, he may have given me more total laughs simply because he could squeeze 30 minutes of punch lines into three frenetic minutes. Remarkably, Williams’ serious work might have surpassed his funny stuff.

Williams tragically succumbed to the demons of depression Monday, his death at age 63 leaving fans with figurative arrows through the heart. Here are some of his – and his film characters’ – words from the heart . . .

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“You know what music is? God’s little reminder that there’s something else besides us in this universe; harmonic connection between all living beings, everywhere, even the stars.” – Robin Williams

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“No matter what people tell you, words and ideas can change the world.” – Robin Williams as John Keating in “Dead Poets Society”

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“(If) I’d ask you about love, you’d probably quote me a sonnet. But you’ve never looked at a woman and been totally vulnerable. Known someone that could level you with her eyes, feeling like God put an angel on earth just for you. Who could rescue you from the depths of hell. And you wouldn’t know what it’s like to be her angel, to have that love for her.” – Robin Williams’ character Dr. Sean Maguire in “Good Will Hunting”

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“Listen, you hear it? Carpe. Hear it? ITAL(whispering)ENDITAL Carpe. Carpe diem. Seize the day, boys. Make your lives extraordinary.” – again as John Keating

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Now, more happily, I would like to share some wisdom from a different Williams – Marcella, my daughter’s former fourth-grade teacher and now a family friend, who upon celebrating her birthday this week shared some “What I Know Today” thoughts:

“Tend to the pieces and parts. The whole will take care of itself in good time.

“Make time to do the stuff you like to do and figure out what those things are.

“Be sure you aren’t good at everything you do. If you are then you’re probably not doing much. Don’t get stale. Learning is essential.

“Know the difference between a situation and a crisis. Either way, things can always at least feel a little better with a snack, a sweater and a nap.

“Endings herald beginnings and a little creative destruction now and then clears the decks for a solid foundation to build anew.

“Know the difference between building a resume and a eulogy. Do both. Be responsible for good work and a good life.

“Be brave. Live big. Love more.”

Carpe diem.

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Wooden-&-Me-cover-mock-upWoody Woodburn writes a weekly column for The Ventura County Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com.

Check out my new memoir WOODEN & ME: Life Lessons from My Two-Decade Friendship with the Legendary Coach and Humanitarian to Help “Make Each Day Your Masterpiece”

Column: An Unknown Hero

by Woody

Wooden & Me Kickstarter Front PhotoWOODEN & ME: Life Lessons from My Two-Decade Friendship with the Legendary Coach and Humanitarian to Help “Make Each Day Your Masterpiece” can be purchased here at Amazon

 

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An Unknown Hero Among Heroes

For the first five days of August, I was in the august company of heroes in our nation’s capital.

Heroes like astronauts John Glenn and Neil Armstrong and earlier fliers like Charles Lindbergh and the Wright Brothers, all in the Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum.1-arlington

Men and women, heroes, interred in Arlington National Cemetery, a heartbreaking landscape that is ironically beautiful.

My tour of heroes included monuments for those who served in World Wars I and II; the Korean War Memorial; and the Vietnam Memorial Wall.

In the National Archives I peered at Founding heroes like Benjamin Franklin and John Hancock’s faded “John Hancocks” on the original Declaration of Independence.

And, of course, there are the marble heroes in the National Mall: George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Abraham Lincoln, Franklin D. Roosevelt and Martin Luther King, Jr.

Yet the hero who arguably engraved the deepest impression on me was one I encountered shortly after my late-night arrival at Ronald Reagan National Airport when I boarded the Metro Blue Line to my downtown D.C. hotel.

The first few minutes of the ride were quiet, sans the pleasant rhythmic sounds of the train itself, when suddenly came clamor.

A passenger facing me two rows ahead in the near-empty train car – a tall, sinewy man in his 20s, his bare arms covered with long sleeves of tattoos, his electrocuted blond hair making Einstein’s look tame – jumped from his seat like a jack-in-the-box. He shouted at a goateed man, about the same age as he although shorter and stockier, sitting across the aisle.

Apparently the goateed man had “disrespected” the mangy tattooed man’s dog. In a flash the two men were nose-to-nose although only the tattooed man spoke – or rather, shouted. He cursed at the goateed man; challenged his manhood; unleashed racial taunts. Exclamation marks punctuated his torrent.

At any second I expected weapons to come out and I don’t think I was alone; a young woman facing me across the aisle looked absolutely petrified. As the vile racial epithets from the crazed tattooed man intensified, I signaled with my eyes that she – we – should sneak out the door at the next stop.1-metro

Just then, THUMP! The goateed man unloaded a punch. And another and a third. Frankly, Gandhi might not have blamed him at this point. Meanwhile, the tattooed man’s large dog remarkably remained nonviolent.

In slow motion this is what I next witnessed: a baldheaded man with his back to the fray bolted from his seat and in one fluid motion spun 180 degrees into the aisle, took three lightening-quick strides and grabbed the goateed man from behind before he could throw a fourth punch. Breaking apart two pit bulls would have required less courage.

It was as if Batman was aboard.

Sitting beside his gray-haired wife, the baldheaded man had been as unimposing as Bruce Wayne: he was wearing peach slacks and a white sweater and appeared old enough to receive Social Security.

Once he rose, however, the Teddy bear came into focus like a grizzly. If not a former NFL linebacker, my guess is he was once an Army sergeant or perhaps a retired police officer for he exuded the authority of both.

After getting between the combatants who were now both screaming bloodily at each other, the baldheaded man barked commands: “Knock it off! Now! Get out of here! Now! Before you get arrested!”

All the while the baldheaded man strode forward slowly and wide-footed, a heavyweight boxer backing up a foe, herding the goateed man towards the exit door as a German Shepherd would direct a sheep.

At the next stop the goateed man and tattooed man both got off; the baldheaded man returned to his gray-haired wife’s side; and the rest of us in the train car breathed easier.

When my stop came, I used the exit door furthest from me but nearer the baldheaded man.

“Thanks,” I said, shaking his hand. “You’re a hero.”

He smiled humbly, but appreciatively, and almost as widely as did his wife.

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Woody Woodburn writes a weekly column for The Ventura County Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com.

Check out my new memoir WOODEN & ME: Life Lessons from My Two-Decade Friendship with the Legendary Coach and Humanitarian to Help “Make Each Day Your Masterpiece”

Column: “Daddy” Ruth

by Woody

‘Daddy’ Ruth was Sultan of Sweet

George Herman “Babe” Ruth, who made his Major League Baseball debut 100 years ago this month (July 11), had more nicknames than suit pockets, including “The Bambino”, “The Sultan of Swat”, “The Colossus of Clout” and “The Wali of Wallop.”

To Julia, however, “The Home Run King” was simply “Daddy.”1-ruth

“Everywhere we went people worshiped him because he was The Famous Babe Ruth,” Julia Ruth Stevens, now 98 years old and Ruth’s lone surviving child, once told me. “I worshiped him because he was my daddy.

“We had so much fun together. Daddy couldn’t have been a better father. Being his daughter, I was the happiest girl in the world!”

Happy memories.

“Daddy always rose to the occasion, whether it was hitting the ball out of the park when he said he’d do it or making it to my (high school) graduation,” Julia recalled, the latter requiring flying home from a road trip and arriving just in time to hear her name announced. “When he made a promise, he always came through. You could count on it.”

Memories.

“One of my favorite things was when Daddy would go hunting or fishing,” Julia said. “He liked to leave the house by five, so he would get up really early and stick his head in my bedroom and ask softly, ‘Want to have breakfast with me?’

“I’d always say, ‘Absolutely!’ It was a chance to spend some special time alone with him. We’d go to the kitchen and Daddy would fix ‘The Babe Ruth Special’ – he’d brown a piece of buttered bread in a frying pan and then cut a hole in the middle of it. Then he’d put an egg in the hole and put fried boloney on top. It was his original creation and he loved it.”

“It was SUCH FUN,” Julia continued, sounding like she was talking in all capital letters. “I LOVED just talking to him. Then he’d leave on his hunting or fishing trip and I’d go back to bed to sleep a little more.”

Memories.

“Daddy gave me a wristwatch, my very first watch. We were playing on the couch and he was tickling me and I guess I threw my arm back and broke the crystal on the watch.”

Young Julia’s tears welled up but never had a chance to roll down her cheeks: “Daddy said, ‘Don’t worry about it, I’ll get you anther one.’ Daddy always showered me with love.”

Another memory.

“Daddy was very strict. Even into my 20s, I had to be home by 12 o’clock. Daddy would say, ‘There’s nothing to do after midnight.’ ”

She laughed at the irony, adding: “He very well knew that wasn’t true!”

Other things he said did ring true to Julia: “One value Daddy taught me was to be truthful. He hated it when anyone lied. ‘You can’t trust anyone after they have lied to you,’ he said and I’ve always remembered that. He also told me never to look down on anyone – he felt strongly about that.”

Memories.

“I loved to see kids smile when he gave them an autograph,” Julia shared. “He’d always sign – never turned down a kid for an autograph, or even an adult. He signed almost everything you can imagine: balls and gloves and bats and caps and shirts, ticket stubs and scraps of paper. You name it, if someone asked Daddy signed it.”

Memories.

“I remember that when Daddy came up to bat the sound of the stadium changed,” Julia recalled, and clearly, eight decades later. “A loud murmur would rise because the fans all wanted to see Daddy connect with one of his tremendous swings that would make the ball soar!”

A pause: “I saw him hit quite a few home runs.”

Longer pause: “Of course I saw Daddy strike out a lot, too!”

There were a lot of both to see: 1,330 career strikeouts and 714 homers.

“As great as Daddy was as a ballplayer, he really was just as great as a father,” Julia concluded. “I LOVED being Babe Ruth’s daughter. It was just so MUCH FUN!”

As “Daddy” he was The Babe Ruth Special indeed.

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Woody Woodburn writes a weekly column for The Ventura County Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com.

Check out my new memoir WOODEN & ME: Life Lessons from My Two-Decade Friendship with the Legendary Coach and Humanitarian to Help “Make Each Day Your Masterpiece”

Column: Airport Bliss

by Woody

Another Happiest Place on Earth

Driving someone to the airport, especially when it’s for a departure flight, always brings to my mind the closing scene in “Casablanca” when Humphrey Bogart, playing Rick, famously bids goodbye in the fog of night to Ingrid Bergman:

Going to Burbank Bob Hope Airport reminds me of "Casablanca."

Going to Burbank Bob Hope Airport reminds me of “Casablanca.”

“Ilsa, I’m no good at being noble, but it doesn’t take much to see that the problems of three little people don’t amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world. Someday you’ll understand that. Now, now. Here’s looking at you, kid.”

An airport pick up, especially at Burbank Bob Hope, also reminds me of “Casablanca” because that is where the classic closing scene was filmed – or so legend had it.

Now, now that myth has been busted. Warner Bros. studio archives have been uncovered revealing the airport footage not shot on a sound stage was actually taken at Van Nuys Airport. This truth is almost as heartbreaking as Bogart sending off his great love.

I prefer the myth when I find myself at Burbank Bob Hope. TSA lines don’t mean a hill of beans compared to goodbye hugs and farewell waves.

Disneyland claims to be “The Happiest Place On Earth” but this is another Southern California myth because an airport arrival gate is even more so.

While I loathe waiting for red lights and store lines and doctor appointments that always seem hopelessly behind schedule, I like to arrive early at the airport to give myself time to wait – and watch.

Watch young couples reunited and old couples, too, because the joy exhibited by both is more contagious than the flu.

Watch children run into their parents’ embrace. And grandparents quicken their shuffle to get a hug from their grandchildren.

Watch men give flowers to their loved ones and women give balloons to theirs.

Watch soldiers in uniform lift a child in one heroic arm and a wife in the other, and also lift the spirits of everyone around because of their brave service.

Watch taciturn countenances, weary from waiting, finally glimpse a special face and light up with 100-watt smiles – and those arriving faces, weary from a long day of travel, beaming back.

I imagine my own face lit up a couple nights ago when the special face I was waiting for finally walked through the arrival doors at Bob Hope Airport; my daughter’s face in turn shined as golden as the bouquet of sunflowers I held for her.

Moments before our reunion I witnessed a scene worthy of Hollywood, a uniting that began with running squeals of delight and ended in a minute-long embrace. All eyes looked up from their smartphones/texts/emails to watch and smile and even tear up themselves.

The two girls, each in her early teens, appeared to be sisters who had been separated for many months or perhaps close childhood friends now living distantly. To be sure, they disproved Robert Louis Stevenson’s belief: “To travel hopefully is a better thing than to arrive.”

I was curious, but did not wish to intrude. As fortune would have it, however, the arriving girl had been on my daughter’s connecting flight and so as we all waited at the luggage carousel I asked her, “Are you sisters?”

“No, BFFs,” came the reply, teen girl talk of course for Best Friends Forever.

Then their story got even more wonderful, because the arriving girl did not mean “forever” as in the past but rather into the future. You see, this was the first time the two had actually met in person.

The arriving girl, despite being a casting director’s dream of a beach blonde “California girl,” was actually from Kansas City, Missouri, while the shorter redhead was from the Los Angeles area. They “met” and became BFFs in the 21st Century version of being pen pals via Facebook, Instagram and email.

Their itinerary over the upcoming two weeks, the L.A. redhead said, include all of the “Hollywood things” and the beach . . . and, of course, the blonde from Kansas City excitedly added, “Disneyland!”

“This is The Happiest Place on Earth,” I thought of the airport arrival area, though I did not say it. Instead, I wished the two BFFs a great time. Here’s looking at you, kids.

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Woody Woodburn writes a weekly column for The Ventura County Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com.

Check out my new memoir WOODEN & ME: Life Lessons from My Two-Decade Friendship with the Legendary Coach and Humanitarian to Help “Make Each Day Your Masterpiece”

Column: Louie Zamperini

by Woody

My new memoir WOODEN & ME is also available here at Amazon

Lessons from ‘Toughest Miler Ever’

Generally, I cannot recall what I had for lunch the previous day and certainly if you ask me about three days past I will draw a blank. Yet I can tell you that the daily special in a Hollywood café on a sunny July afternoon 14 years ago was meatloaf.

Louie Zamperini with my son Greg, a fellow Trojan distance runner, and me.

Louie Zamperini with my son Greg, a fellow Trojan distance runner, and me.

I remember this not because I ordered it, but because my lunch companion did – only to have the waitress return from the kitchen with news they were out of gravy. She asked Louie Zamperini what he would like to order instead.

My dessert that day was spending the rest of the afternoon with the legendary 1936 Olympic runner and World War II hero, listening to his life story while looking through couch cushion-sized scrapbooks.

Zamperini’s death arrived on July 2 after he battled pneumonia for 40 days. That may well be a world record for a 97-year-old to hold off pneumonia, but Zamperini always had the mettle for long, tough battles.

After his B-24 Liberator was shot down on May 27, 1943, Air Force Captain Louis Zamperini (and one crew member) drifted nearly 2,000 miles in the South Pacific, surviving for 47 days while fighting hunger, fighting thirst, fighting sharks.

“Two big sharks tried to jump in the raft and take us out,” Zamperini – then 83 and so fit he still regularly hiked, skied and skateboarded – told me. After a sip of iced tea he added: “We went seven days without water. That was brutal.”

Nourished only by rainwater, a few fish and sea birds, and two small sharks, the 5-foot-9 Zamperini weighed 67 pounds – 80 below his racing weight – when a Japanese patrol boat picked him up.

Then the brutality turned truly hellish. For good reason Louie titled his autobiography “Devil at My Heels.”

For good reason Laura Hillenbrand’s bestselling biography of Zamerini is titled “Unbroken.” Even two and half years in a POW slave camp couldn’t break him.

Certainly Japanese Army Sergeant Matsuhiro Watanabe tried to break Zamoerini. “The Bird,” as the prisoners called this devil incarnate, beat him daily. Beat him bloody. And during one savage streak used a belt buckle to beat Louie into unconsciousness 14 days in a row.

For these reasons I called Zamperini “The Toughest Miler Ever” in my column after interviewing him.

Louie Zamperini during his glory days at USC.

Louie Zamperini during his glory days at USC.

Here is how great a miler Zamperini was: his national prep record set at Torrance High stood for a full 20 years. He was a back-to-back NCAA champion at USC and his 1939 national collegiate record (4:08) stood for 15 years.

Zamperini’s greatest running victory came off the cinder track.

“Absolutely, my athletic background saved my life,” he told me. “I kept thinking about my athletic training when I was competing against the elements, against the enemy, against hunger and thirst. In athletics, you learn to find ways to increase your effort. In athletics you don’t quit – ever!”

Zamperini shared other life lessons with me, like: “Faith is more important than courage.”

And this: “I forgave The Bird.” Only by doing so, he explained, did he finally escape his own post-war emotional prison.

And now there is a lesson in his death, too: that a single flower for the living is better than bouquets on a grave.

While it is wonderful “Unbroken” became a bestseller, it is sad a movie of Zamperini’s heroic life will finally reach the screen this Christmas Day after his death.

How much sweeter had the film been made in the 1950s (Tony Curtis wanted the role) or in the late 1990s (Nicolas Cage was interested) when Zamperini could have enjoyed it.

Similarly, how sorrowful that the Tournament of Roses waited until 2015 to honor Zamperini as its Grand Marshal. Did it think he would live forever? Why wait until he was 97? Was he any less worthy of the honor at 87 or 67?

Back to lunch. I fondly remember Louie’s answer when the waitress told him there was no gravy.

No matter. Not after what he had endured. The Toughest Miler Ever smiled and ordered the meatloaf anyway.

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Woody Woodburn writes a weekly column for The Ventura County Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com.

Check out my new memoir WOODEN & ME: Life Lessons from My Two-Decade Friendship with the Legendary Coach and Humanitarian to Help “Make Each Day Your Masterpiece”

Column: Portrait of Forgiveness

by Woody | 2 Comments

Portrait of Divine Forgiveness

Serendipity smiled on me last week in a local bookstore when I met Erin Prewitt for the first time. What began as a brief encounter lasted two hours and left me divinely changed.

I also was left feeling like I had in a manner spoken with the likes of Abraham Lincoln, Gandhi, Nelson Mandela and other sages of compassion.1-forgive

Understand, this was less than 24 hours before sentencing would be handed down in a Ventura County courtroom for 24-year-old Shante Chappell who, while driving under the influence of marijuana and Xanax, struck and killed Erin’s 38-year-old husband Chris during a marathon training run on Victoria Avenue.

On an evening that might well have been filled with thoughts of vengeance, Erin was a portrait from Alexander Pope’s “An Essay on Criticism,” specifically the famous line: “To err is human, to forgive, divine.”

The essay’s title is itself apropos because Erin told me she was certain she would receive criticism for her compassion towards the monumental error of gross vehicular manslaughter. No matter, her mindset was Lincolnesque: “I have always found that mercy bears richer fruits than strict justice.”

Despite a senseless act that made her a widow and left their 7-year-old daughter Isabella fatherless, Erin shared with me what she would tell the judge the next day – Chris, a beloved educator, would forgive Chappell and therefore she has.

While prosecutors sought a sentence of six years in state prison, Erin wished for shorter justice. Superior Court Judge Ryan Wright must have been moved by her entreaty for he handed down a low-term of four years.

From nearly the moment she received the tragic news of her husband’s death, Erin felt a need to grant forgiveness for many reasons.

Firstly, for her own healing, recognizing the wisdom of Nelson Mandela: “As I walked out the door toward the gate that would lead to my freedom, I knew if I didn’t leave my bitterness and hatred behind, I’d still be in prison.”
Also, by example, she wished to plant the rich fruit of strength in Isabella. Thus into action Erin has put Gandhi’s words: “The weak can never forgive. Forgiveness is the attribute of the strong.”

Importantly, too, Erin felt a responsibility to set the tone for the rest of her family and friends as well as the community at large.

“Forgiveness is the fragrance that the violet sheds on the heel that has crushed it,” Mark Twain wrote. Erin Prewitt is a human violet, crushed by a heel of tragedy, yet already blooming again.

At times Erin spoke spiritually, so it was fitting we were in Mrs. Fig’s Bookworm in Camarillo because storeowner Connie Halpern says “Fig” stands for Faith In God. Faith, family and friends have been paramount through Erin’s mourning.

As I said earlier, meeting Erin affected me greatly. Eleven years ago my life was also impacted by a driver under the influence. While I blessedly survived the high-speed collision, I suffered permanent injury.

Too, my bitterness at the drunk driver had been permanent. Erin changed that. If she can forgive Chappell, how can I not do so a far lesser tragedy?

Erin’s gift to me is a gift to all. From her standard, how can we not forgive an estranged family member or alienated friend or even ourselves for a shortcoming?

If Erin could hug Chappell in courtroom and, as reported in The Star, tell her, “We forgive you, but it’s time for you to forgive yourself,” then surely the rest of us are capable of showing more compassion.

Lincoln one more time. During the Civil War he frequently received appeals for presidential pardons for soldiers who had been court-martialed and sentenced to die. These petitions were always accompanied by letters of support from influential people.

On one occasion, Lincoln received a single-page appeal from a soldier without any supporting documents. “What? Has this man no friends?” asked the president.

“No, sir,” said the adjutant. “Not one.”

“Then I will be his friend,” said Lincoln as he signed the pardon for the soldier.

Erin Prewitt seems a similarly divine friend.

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Woody Woodburn writes a weekly column for The Ventura County Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com.

Check out my new memoir WOODEN & ME: Life Lessons from My Two-Decade Friendship with the Legendary Coach and Humanitarian to Help “Make Each Day Your Masterpiece”

Column: Summer Beach Bucket List

by Woody

A Beach Bucket List For Summer

In recognition of today being the summer solstice, here is my plastic beach bucket list for the next three months. I encourage you to come up with your own list – and, importantly, then check off as many items as possible this summer.

Help a kid with a beach bucket build a sandcastle.1-sandcasle

Extend my streak since age 2 of watching fireworks every year on the Fourth of July.

Watch a sunrise somewhere new.

Watch a sunset, with the Channel Islands as a backdrop, on an evening when the clouds on the horizon glow so vibrant a field of wild flowers would seem gray by comparison.

Visit my ancestors’ roots in County Cork, Ireland, for the first time.

Fly a kite for about the 100th time.

Tour the Guinness Brewery in Dublin, Ireland, and – as when visiting The Original Ghirardelli Ice Cream & Chocolate Shop in San Francisco – do some sampling.

Take a tour (with a companion designated driver) of a local winery and do some sampling.

Visit The Original Ghirardelli Ice Cream & Chocolate Shop in San Francisco and spoil my dinner.

Do a cannonball off a diving board. Bonus: get a family member wet.

Walk barefoot in cool grass, on warm sand, and on hot blacktop to feel like a kid again.

See a local play.

Enjoy an ice cream cone outside on a day so hot the treat melts and drips faster than I can eat it. And it has to be ice cream, not frozen yogurt. And make it Rocky Road. And add a vanilla scoop for my dog, Murray.

Visit a metropolitan museum.

Go to a local art show.

Spend part of an afternoon watching surfers, kite surfers and, if I’m really lucky, dolphins surfing.

Daydream looking at clouds and stargaze on a clear night.

Listen to live music at a local intimate setting.

Go to a concert at a big venue.

Listen to Vin Scully give a concert.

Enjoy a glass of lemonade from a kid’s stand – and leave a crazy tip.

Go on a hike where I’ve never been before.

Walk hand-in-hand with my much-better-half on the beach where we met.

Ride a paddleboat at the Ventura Harbor and the Ferris wheel at the Ventura County Fair with my adult daughter who will always be my little girl.

Take advantage of my son being in Washington, D.C. for the summer and visit the National Mall for the first time.

Take a selfie with my son and Abe at the Lincoln Memorial.1-fireworks.png PM

Go up in the Washington Monument.

Wear out a pair of new running shoes.

Go for a run in the rain – hopefully Ireland or D.C. will make this possible since Ventura likely won’t.

Go to an author’s book talk.

Read 10 books.

Marvel at the artistic tall stacks of balanced rocks at Ventura’s Surfers Point and try my hand at maybe going four high.

Participate in a beach clean-up day.

Hammer some nails for Habitat For Humanity.

Search for the best taco in Ventura County.

Search for the best micro-brew in Ventura County.

Have dinner “out” from five different local food trucks.

Have the owner of a food truck or restaurant name a sandwich “The Woodrow.”

Write a poem – and memorize one.

Join in on a kids’ water-balloon fight.

Roast marshmallows and make some s’mores.

Catch-and-release a trout, a firefly and a butterfly.

Play a spirited board game until the wee hours.

Go unplugged for one entire weekend.

Go unshaven for a full week.

Do not go unplugged the final week of summer in order to watch the debut airing on PBS of Ken Burn’s newest documentary – “The Roosevelts: An Intimate History” – which I saw the gifted filmmaker talk about in person at a sneak preview a few months ago. It looks fantastic.

Try to heed Eleanor Roosevelt’s advice, “Do one thing every day that scares you.” Or at least once every week this summer.

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Woody Woodburn writes a weekly column for The Ventura County Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com.

Check out my new memoir WOODEN & ME: Life Lessons from My Two-Decade Friendship with the Legendary Coach and Humanitarian to Help “Make Each Day Your Masterpiece”

Column: A Story For Father’s Day

by Woody

A Father, A Son And A Promise Kept

The boy, seven years old, was in the family barn doing chores. This was a full eight decades ago, yet the boy – my dad – remembers it like last week.

“I was cornered by rats,” Pop shares. “Big ones. Lots of ’em. To this day, I have a real phobia.”

The frightening memory of a Midwestern rat pack surging out of the hay is, surprisingly, also a cherished one because Pop’s boyhood dog, a terrier mix named Queenie, came running.

Pop, right, with grandson Greg and me.

Pop, right, with grandson Greg and me.

She did what terriers instinctively do: caught each rat in her teeth and gave it a side-to-side neck-breaking shake, tossed it aside like a rag doll, and then went after the next one and the next and the next. Lassie rescuing Timmy.

“She may not have saved my life,” Pop continues, “but at the time it sure felt like it.”

If Queenie did not literally save Pop’s life that day, it is still fair to say she was roundabout responsible for saving many other lives – hundreds, if not thousands – in the future. I will explain.

Queenie’s defining moment actually did not happen in the barn that afternoon; it occurred on a Sunday evening the following summer. The boy, now almost nine, noticed his dog was sick. Soon she went into seizure.

Unbeknownst at the moment, a deranged man had laced raw meat with strychnine – rat poison – and fed it to more than two-dozen dogs throughout the small rural Ohio neighborhood.

What the boy did know was he needed his father’s help, and urgently. Unfortunately, this was eons before cell phones so he could not reach his dad, a country doctor who was out making weekend house calls.

It would have been no problem had the boy known what patient his dad was visiting. Back then the boy did not even need to dial local phone numbers – he would just pick up the telephone and tell the woman operator (it was always a pleasant woman) the name of any person in town and she would connect them simple as that, the operator all the while chatting with the boy until the other person answered.

Tearfully, helplessly, anxiously the boy watched out the front window at 210 Henry Street for his dad to get home.

“I was so scared for Queenie,” that boy, now 87, recalls.

At long last the boy’s dad – my Grandpa Ansel – came home. It proved to be a life-changing “house call.” Ansel put down his well-worn black leather doctor’s bag and checked out his critical “patient.”

Immediately he suspected poisoning and took out a bottle of ether he kept in his medical bag for emergencies such as putting a patient to sleep before setting a broken bone.

Humming softly, Ansel gently held an ether-soaked cloth over Queenie’s snout in the same gentle, caring fashion he used to calm a frightened child crying in pain until the anesthesia took its hold.

The ether-induced unconsciousness temporarily stopped Queenie’s potentially deadly seizures, but when the potion wore off the fierce convulsions would return. It was imperative to keep the dog asleep until the poison could hopefully run its course; however, a continuous does of ether would itself prove fatal.

Hence, Ansel had to constantly monitor the dog’s breathing and administer a brief whiff of ether when necessary. By doing so he was able to keep Queenie precariously balanced on a high wire between slumber and seizures.

Throughout the long night, Ansel kept vigil by the ill dog’s side while the boy kept vigil by his country-doctor-turned-veterinarian father’s side. Soon, Ansel had two sleeping heads on his lap, albeit only one required ether’s aid.

“The next day Queenie was better,” Pop shares, his voice filled with marvel and gratitude all these years later. “She was the only one of all the poisoned dogs to live. The only one. All because of my dad.”

And here is the most important thing. Pop adds: “That dog, that night, changed my life. Right then I promised myself I was going to become a doctor, just like my dad.”

Happy Father’s Day to that boy who kept his promise.

*

Woody Woodburn writes a weekly column for The Ventura County Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com.

Check out my new memoir WOODEN & ME: Life Lessons from My Two-Decade Friendship with the Legendary Coach and Humanitarian to Help “Make Each Day Your Masterpiece”

Column: Maya Angelou remembered

by Woody

Hers was ‘The Voice of God’

 

“What’s your favorite book you have ever read?” is nearly impossible to answer. One’s honest response may change if asked again even an hour later.

 

1-maya

May Angelou: “Try to be a rainbow in someone’s cloud.”

And yet if you alter the question ever so slightly – “What is your favorite book you have ever listened to?” – I can answer with certainty and sincerity and consistency: “I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings” on audio book narrated by its author, Maya Angelou.

 

On the written page, this memoir is a modern classic. Read aloud by Angelou, it is poetry.

 

Decades ago, James Facenda gained fame as the bass narrator of NFL Films and earned the nickname “The Voice of God.” With apologies to the late, great Facenda, Maya Angelou made you believe god is a She.

 

The great writer and poet, who passed away on May 28 at age 86, could have read a phonebook aloud and made it enthralling. Or the nutritional facts on a cereal box. Yes, hers was “The Voice of God.”

 

Too, Angelou seemed to have Her wisdom and grace.

 

I saw Angelou speak in person only once, at the Pasadena Civic Auditorium. It was about a decade ago, but I vividly remember her sitting regally in an overstuffed chair on stage and magically making it seem like she was having a one-on-one visit with each of the 3,000-plus in attendance.

 

In essence, she was our elegant host for the evening and yet one of the stories she shared that has stayed with me was about the importance of being a gracious guest.

 

I forget precisely what impoverished village she was visiting in a distant land, but her hosts served a fancy porridge for dinner. Upon taking her first spoonful, Angelou realized the “raisins” were alive.

 

The second impulse in such a situation – the first being to gag – is to spit out the wriggling intruders. Angelou did a third thing, an amazing and rare thing: she swallowed that unappetizing mouthful and then the next until it was all gone.

 

You see, Angelou realized she had been given an honorary meal that her host considered a delicacy. To decline, even politely, would be an insult. And so Maya Angelou behaved as if she were dining on her favorite five-star cuisine.

 

I have thought of this life lesson from Angelou over the years when hearing people complain to a hostess that they can’t eat this or that or the other. I mean, if Angelou could affably eat some squirming “raisins” perhaps those of us who are particular about what we do – and don’t – eat could (unless we have a true medical restriction) politely tolerate a smidgen of dairy, gluten, sugar or whatever.

 

And yet, the opposite also holds true: I believe Angelou would have gracefully wanted to provide a gluten-free, lactose-free or a vegetarian dish to her guests. To be sure, one gets the feeling Angelou lived the words she preached, such as:

 

“Try to be a rainbow in someone’s cloud.”

 

“If you don’t like something, change it. If you can’t change it, change your attitude.”

 

“When you leave home, you take home with you.”

 

“As long as you’re breathing, it’s never too late to do some good.”

 

 “You can only become truly accomplished at something you love. Don’t make money your goal. Instead pursue the things you love doing.”

 

“A friend may be waiting behind a stranger’s face.”

 

“Love recognizes no barriers. It jumps hurdles, leaps fences, penetrates walls to arrive at its destination full of hope.”

 

“When you learn, teach; when you get, give.”

 

And: “I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”

 

Somewhere, in some distant land, there are people who feel like Maya Angelou loved the authentic local meal they served her. Actually, all around the globe are people who remember feeling her rare grace.

 

Indeed, the quote from Maya Angelou that seems most fitting in the wake of her passing are the words she said upon Nelson Mandela’s death: “Our planet has lost a friend.”

 

*

Woody Woodburn writes a weekly column for The Ventura County Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com.

 

Check out my new memoir WOODEN & ME: Life Lessons from My Two-Decade Friendship with the Legendary Coach and Humanitarian to Help “Make Each Day Your Masterpiece”

 

 

Column: Isla Vista, Anytown USA

by Woody

Idyllic Isla Vista could be Anytown USA

 

Had someone asked me a week ago which university I thought would be least likely to suffer a mass shooting, I believe I would have answered, “UC Santa Barbara.”

 

I mean, how could such terror happen at my alma mater? How could laid-back Isla Vista, where I lived for two idyllic years, be the latest grieving site?

 

Which is exactly the point, I think. The next such rampage – and sadly there will be a next one and a next – can happen Anywhere USA.

The Faces We Should Remember: Top row from left to right: Weihan Wang, George Chen, Cheng Yuan Hong. Bottom row from left to right: Christopher Michaels-Martinez, Katie Cooper, Veronika Weiss.

The Faces To Remember:
Top row from left to right: Weihan Wang, George Chen, Cheng Yuan Hong. Bottom row from left to right: Christopher Michaels-Martinez, Katie Cooper, Veronika Weiss.

 

Virginia Tech students and alumni didn’t think it could happen there. Columbine High. Sandy Hook Elementary. Themovie theater in Colorado. The supermarket parking lot in Tucson. Fill-in-the-blank where mass shootings have happened in America. Throw a dart at a map where the next one might.

 

Three decades removed from my days at UCSB, but with sons and daughters of friends attending there now, the shooting (and three fatal stabbings) has resonated with me more deeply than others. Such is the power of familiarity, I suppose. Places in Isla Vista where I laughed with friends and courted my wife now come in to my focus as among the 10 crime scenes.

 

I cannot imagine the lasting heartache and mental scars for those who were there that tragic night.

 

Nor can I imagine the courage shown by one male UCSB student I saw interviewed on TV the day after. I want to call him a boy, but in truth he is a young man who had just witnessed war at the front line.

 

He saw three young women get shot, raced to their fallen bodies, and instantly knew two were dead. He turned his attention to the third woman, bleeding as she phoned her mom to say “I love you” in fear they might be her last words, and stayed by her side until paramedics arrived. She survived.

 

The young hero’s calm but graphic retelling turned the unfathomable horror into knowable faces – those of the two young women lost, the one who survived, and his own face filled with grief.

 

Faces. Veronika Weiss, a 19-year-old from Westlake High School in Thousand Oaks, was one of the two women murdered. Hers was a face of girl-next-door prettiness; a face of straight-A’s and athletic accomplishment; a face of kindness according to all who knew her.

 

            Faces. Christopher Martinez, the gray-bearded father of 19-year-old victim Christopher, who at the war scene afterward delivered a Gettysburg Address for its brevity and impassioned emotion:

 

“I talked to him about 45 minutes before he died. Our family has a message for every parent out there: You don’t think it’ll happen to your child until it does. Chris was a really great kid. Ask anyone who knew him. His death has left our family lost and broken.

 

“Why did Chris die? Chris died because of craven, irresponsible politicians and the NRA. They talk about gun rights. What about Chris’ right to live? When will this insanity stop?

 

“When will enough people say, ‘Stop this madness!’ We do not have to live like this. Too many people have died. We should say to ourselves, ‘not one more!’ ”

 

Faces. An overlooked tragedy is that “the madman” – as one witness called the shooter – has become The Face of this rampage. I will not mention his name for it is best forgotten. It is the victims who should be remembered – Weiss, Martinez, Katie Cooper, George Chen, James Cheng, David Wang.

 

It angers me that the videos “the madman” posted online before his killing spree are played over and over and over on TV. This is exactly what he wanted, to become famous – or infamous. Hence in death he achieves his life’s twisted goal.

 

            There is great debate on the influence of violence and misogyny in video games, advertising and movies, and rightly so. But what about the influence on mentally ill minds that watch a lunatic’s evil rants elevate him to worldwide TV celebrity, so to speak?

 

            It is impossibly lofty, but I wish henceforth the media would give only 1 percent of its focus on the perpetrators and 99 percent to the faces worth remembering.

 

*

Woody Woodburn writes a weekly column for The Ventura County Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com.

 

Check out my new memoir WOODEN & ME: Life Lessons from My Two-Decade Friendship with the Legendary Coach and Humanitarian to Help “Make Each Day Your Masterpiece”